


the inside lingo had me at hello

by kitmarlowed



Series: archaeologists au [1]
Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Leario is the most unhealthy relationship, Leo is a bit manic depressive, M/M, Modern AU - Archaeologists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmarlowed/pseuds/kitmarlowed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes Riario back to a different hotel and buys him a drink, “The least I can do,” he says, “to be polite.” and Riario throws his head back and laughs and laughs and shows him that open throat, it’s all Leo can do to resist.</p><p>In which Leonardo and Riario are historians with history and Leonardo has only got half an artifact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. drinks in hotel bars

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing except the word order and the plot such as it is.

i.

 

There’s blood on his shirt and, thankfully this time, it’s his.

 

This is going to be hard to explain.

 

ii.

 

“Everything’s fine, well,” he says over the phone, wiping sweat from his skin and washing blood from the creases in everything, “I’m alive. The tomb imploded but I’ve found something, don’t know what it’s worth.”

Zo coughs, there’s a sound of shifting weight and passing the phone from one hand to the other.

“I’m in a spot of bother,” says Zo. Leo laughs, throws the towel across the room and crosses after it, to the table, asks, “are you in a prison sort of bother?”

“No,” Zo replies, dryly, then on a rush: “I’mindebttolotsofpeoplewhowantmedeadnow.”

“The lack of swearing in that sentence fills me with dread,” Leo says, loading a gun. “I’ll be right with you.”

 

iii.

 

“What d’you think it’s worth?” Nico says, weighing the key in the palm of one hand and the coin in the other. Leo snatches them back, “Fuck if I know,” he says, “but I do know that there’s another part to this key.” He lifts it to the light and turns it in the lock in his mind, for the thousandth time since Egypt.

“See,” he says, “the notches it has, they wouldn’t fit any normal lock on any normal historical door - any logical door at all, really. There has to be another somewhere.”

“And the coin?” Zo says, drawn as per usual to any money he can find.

“Look at the marking on it, the face, it’s an idol but it’s from a religion I’ve never heard of.” Leo takes a swig of his drink, blessedly cold in the blessed cool of the air conditioned bar in comfortable Florence. “I know someone, though.”

Nico smiles, sips his coke, and Zo drops his head to the bar with a sigh, “take me with you,” he says and Leo grins, “Of course.”

 

iv.

 

Leo da Vinci is a name uttered as a curse in most reputable museums in the world, as well as most shady ones. He’s an archaeologist, technically, a treasure-hunter, entirely, and a madman, absolutely. He had a teaching post at one point, with a degree he bought online with money from the odd painting and fenced artifact he deemed of little consequence - got thrown out for an affair with the mistress of an important politician, said it set a bad example to the students. Free world, free love only obviously not, he hasn’t seen Lucrezia or Lorenzo Medici, god forbid, in at least a year. Leo before would have cared, Leo now not so much - he’ll just look for a distraction, not love.

After all, other people are all the same, money or God they want a sense of validation - Leo just wants to see a better world, the ancients, in his view, had it right.

 

v.

 

“So this guy you know,” Zo hedges, on the train to Rome, averting his eyes whenever the attendant walks by but sipping his cocktail like he owns the train regardless, “what does he do?”

Leo pauses his sketching but doesn’t look up (there was a beautiful statue in the tomb that’s probably pieces now, he can draw it though), says, “he’s a teacher, scholar, historian, linguist et cetera. You know the drill with these types.”

“Yeah,” Nico laughs, “types like you. Polymaths.”

“This one’s not quite as good as me,” says Leo, finally breaking contact with his sketch and looking out the window. Zo smiles, “A friend?”

“Not in the slightest.”

 

vi.

 

In his head, Leo supposes, Nico and Zo form the gang - with the occasional aid of Vanessa.

(“She’s dating someone, you know,” Zo says and Nico sniggers, adds, “yeah, someone you know too.”

“Very funny, Nico, you should abandon this life and become a comedian,” Leo says, turns to Zo, “who?”

“Giuliano Medici.”

“Fuck.”)

Zoroaster, gentleman thief and okay salesperson, on the phone 24/7 and Nico, sent from God and his obscure aunt from nowhere, Italy, to torment, exalt and learn from Leo - the student who didn’t leave. Vanessa the liberated nun in training, good with people and talking Leo down from stupid shit.

Together, they steal pretty things (like Leo’s been doing his whole life, like he’s stolen them).

Vanessa catches them at the station in Rome, dragging the Medici behind her and smiling like the sun. Giuliano sends withering glances Leo’s way but he ignores them, listening to Vanessa’s tales of Florence and Zo’s latest insult to the gangs and sellers there.

“So,” he says to Zo, “I suppose our buyers in Florence are off the list then,” and Zo shugs, fluid, “I may be able to think of something.”

Leo rests his head against the leather of rest of the cab, the hotel transfer.

“I’m sure,” he says, and he is.

 

vii.

 

Leo doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man teach, and good thing too such pure unbridled passion is his kryptonite.

Armani suits and throwaway smiles that are always to himself, the man’s a walking work of art, a crusader from the pages of legend, a soldier from the sands of time, talking of angels, of religion, or new worlds and flights of fancy. He skips through modern Italian to medieval Roman to Latin in long continuous sentences. The class are entranced, and Leo would be too but he’s seen that mouth frame vicious lies and heard that voice condemn, seen those hands, that lie now by his sides, wonderfully expressive as they talk of stealing artifacts for cults of religion.

Girolamo Riario, Ph.D, brings his lecture to a halt and dismisses the riotous crowd, riding high on knowledge. They file out, and Leo walks out of the shadows.

 

viii.

 

Riario’s hair is dark, his eyes more so, wrists thin, his eyes give every idea of being trained upon the books in front of him, his mind is on da Vinci alone.

“How’s your leg, _artista_?” he asks, in that quiet way he has, as if he isn’t referring to an incident where he himself shot Leonardo and left him to die.

The jolt of pain he feels is psychosomatic, Leo knows, doesn’t wince, says, “Fine, grazi. I hope your little scar healed up.”

Oh yes, there are wounds on both of them from the other, and this specific little scar runs from the outward part of Riario’s left shoulder to his spine, perilously close. It had bled like hell.

Riario nods and turns to face him, eyes bright and a question in the raise and tilt of his head.

“If,” Leo says, drawing nearer, crossing the floor, “you promise not to kill me, I have a proposition for you.”

Riario smiles and moves closer still, until their chests are a hairs-breadth apart and their eyes level.

“If _you_ promise not to kill _me,_ ” Riario says, “I’ll listen.”

 

ix.

 

He takes Riario back to a different hotel and buys him a drink, “The least I can do,” he says, “to be polite.” and Riario throws his head back and laughs and laughs and shows him that open throat, it’s all Leo can do to resist.

 

x.

 

“Mithras,” says Riario, smirking underneath him and toying with the coin in his hand, “sons of. Cult dedicated to preserving and holding the Book of Leaves - the beast is their symbol.”

Leo tugs on the chain that holds a cross around Riario’s neck, watches those dark eyes blow wide, says, “and the key?”

“Only,” Riario manages, dropping the coin and forcing Leo over to let go, finding purchase with a hand on his chest, “only half a key, I’m afraid, but the age and metal is consistent with the coin, so you’re probably looking for some sort of Mithras temple for the other half.”

“We,” Leo says, “are looking.”

Riario hums an agreement, and he places key and coin on the antique bedside table.

 

xi.

 

With Riario insisting a week to organise things and make arrangements, Leo proceeds to see the sights of Rome again. Zo and Nico make interesting companions.

“Would you,” Nico says, short of breath and shielding his eyes, “believe that I’ve never actually been to the top of the colosseum before?”

“Yes,” Zo says and Leo nods, says, “Shut up, I’m listening.”

Zo laughs and Nico leans up to him, Leo sees out of the corner of his eye, and whispers, “What’s he listening to?”

“Fuck knows,” says Zo and he leans onto Nico, “hold me up, friend, I’m dying of the heat!”

Nico huffs out a laugh and pushes away the wandering hands, “Get off,” he says, “you’re heavy.”

“Am not,” Zo whispers, “shh, the maestro’s listening.”

“To what?

“To a bunch of idiots going mad in the sun and altitude,” Leo snaps, Rome is grating on his nerves.

Nico and Zo say nothing, and Leo caves, “I’m sorry,” he says, “going stir crazy, I suppose.”

They nod, and Nico smiles, “I,” he says, voice proud and proper, “vote ice cream.”

Leo smiles at them, says, “seconded.”

 

xii.

 

It rains, and the Trevi fountain is near deserted when Nico throws a coin and wishes loudly that Zoroaster would “Fuck off already.”

Leo grins and sketches the way their hair drips and the coins in the fountain are dull in the clouded light, he sketches the way the shadows make the statues look sinister and the water dangerous. He looks to Oceanus and frowns, god of water, god of rain, the charcoal runs.

Beneath his perch Zo has Nico in a loose stranglehold and they’re laughing in the rain, living the cliche.

He wonders if they understand the rope between them, wonders if it tightens around them when they leave each-other’s sides.

Leo is not jealous of happy couples, regardless of whether they acknowledge their relationships or not, and Lucrezia has not ruined him, rather made him stronger.

Riario did the ruin, Riario signed the warrant.

Leonardo sketches roughly and tears out the page.

 

xiii.

 

It is Thursday and the sun is back, Leo sits on benches and watches tourists run by to the next scene.

“Why are we still here?” Zo moans and Leo sighs, “he asked for a week so I gave him one, go bother Nico with your whining.”

“Who is the fucker anyway?”

Leo doesn’t meet Zo’s eyes, says, “Riario,” and Zo scowls, “fuck’s sake, Leo.”

 

xix.

 

Leo has a hand against Riario’s chest, flesh warm through the thin shirt, and another braced against the wall next to his head. Riario’s hands trail up and down his sides.

“Again, _artista_?” says Riario, his eyes dancing and bright, hands moving lower. “Is this wise?”

Leo smiles, wicked, and presses his knee upwards between Riario’s thighs, laughing when he moans and mutters words taboo in most languages, says, “sleeping with the enemy is rarely wise.”

“How very philosophical an answer, Leonardo,” Riario says, using Leo’s name as he rarely ever does, shaking under Leo’s hands. “am I an exception to some rule?”

As Leo watches, Riario slides a flip-knife from his pocket and presses it to Leo’s ribcage, “it would be easy,” he says, drawing the blade lightly in circles and figure eights, “so easy, and in a hotel room booked in your name who would suspect?”

“There must be ten cameras at least with your picture,” Leo says and Riario shakes his head, tables turned, knife loose in his hand, says, “I know where they are, _artista_ , avoiding cameras is easy.”

Leo takes the lull as an invitation and slams Riario’s hand away, knife skittering into some corner under a dresser and Riario sighs, says, “I rather liked that knife,” and what he means is ‘I’d rather have liked to see you bleed’ but Leo just smiles and encircles both Riario’s wrists, dragging him to the bed.

“I hate you,” he says and Riario nods, kisses his lips and lets himself be pushed down.

“I’m aware,” says Riario, later, his head in the curve of Leo’s neck and his hands laced over his heart, “of your feelings for me, _artista_ , and trust me. They are returned.”

Leo takes a moment to recall what he means, and even then:

“I don’t believe you.”

 


	2. if we get out of this alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Which will you do, artista?” says Riario.
> 
> “Read it and then put it back,” Leo says, and ignores the little voice that tells him that if people are shooting for it they probably want it for bad reasons, because that works on the assumption that he’s the good guy. 
> 
> The assumption is flawed.
> 
>  
> 
> in which plot happens

i.

 

“Let me get this straight,” Zo says, over a beer at the La Pace del Cervello, “you told a man who has tried to kill you in the past all you got about this key and coin and in return he threatened to stab you and told you that we are looking for a book?”

“Yes,” says Leo, “that’s about it, but the stabbing part didn’t happen like that.”

Zo groans, says, “I don’t want to know.”

 

ii.

 

Riario arrives at the airport in a black bespoke suit and carries a tiny suitcase, when Leo narrows his eyes he can just about see the outline of a knife in his jacket pocket.

“How,” Leo hisses, grabbing Riario by the lapels and dragging him to the side, “do you propose to get onto a plane through security with a knife?”

Riario smiles, drops his suitcase and curls Leo’s fingers away from him, bending them back ever so slightly, straightening his jacket with the other hand, murmurs, voice pitched low, “the same way I propose to do anything, _artista_ , bribery.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” Leo asks, taking three steps backwards as Riario begins to walk again.

“It will.”

 

iii.

 

More information on the Sons of Mithras and the location of the second key, Riario says, will be in England and Leo agrees, knows of some scholars at Oxford who might be able to help.

Leo remembers England, remembers Oxford, even, the University that everyone who’s anyone goes to (apart from, of course the Cambridge boys like him) - he visited Oxford on occasion, even lectured there once or twice before the Medici problem. Riario, he thinks, is an Oxford man. Politics vs science is Oxford vs Cambridge, Leo thinks that’s probably why they never got on but then again, opposites, they say, attract.

And of course, there’s the little fact that Leo dropped out of Cambridge for a life of treasure hunting world-wide.

“You were Oxford weren’t you?” Leo says, shredding a piece of paper in his hands because the inflight drinks are no way strong enough. Riario smiles and say nothing.

 

iv.

 

They lose Giuliano and Vanessa when they board, their seats are business class regardless of Medici money and they don’t intend to join in Leo’s “silly little quest” as Giuliano put it - they’re going to London for the sights.

 

v.

 

Their plane is chartered to Heathrow and Leo gives Zo and Nico phones, tells them to find the hotel and stay put while he takes Riario to the Bodleian, Nico argues but Zo places a hand on his arm, a silent stop.

Riario gives them the address of the hotel, “try not to get into any trouble,” he says.

“Fuck you,” says Zo.

 

vi.

 

He gets off the plane with a flurry of goodbyes and starts jogging to the arrivals gate, Riario doesn’t deign to run but Leo feels the heat of eyes on him and when Riario catches up he wants to punch him.

“Don’t you have people to call?” he says, rolling the sleeves of his jacket up and fishing for his own phone.

Riario presses a hand to his shoulder, “already done,” he says, “there are guns waiting for us in the safe of our hotel room.” And Leo gapes, “our room?”

“I have money,” Riario states, as if to a child, “but not that much and besides, you were hardly in need of a separate room.”

 

vii.

 

“Our contact,” Riario tells him, and ‘contact’ as if they’re spies, honestly, “is an old professor of mine,” and Leo resists the urge to celebrate himself of a university well guessed.

Riario fixes him with a look, off the smile he just realises he was smiling, and continues, “he should know more about the Book and where to find it.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Leo says and Riario laughs, says, “where’s your positivity?”

“Non-existent, wherever you’re concerned.”

 

viii.

 

They almost die at the Bodleian, but let’s tell that story fully.

 

ix.

 

“Sit down, Riario, and you too,” says Riario’s professor, the scatty Oxford type, surprisingly though - a Jew.

Riario takes the seat and flicks a hand over to the bookshelves, says, politely, “anything on the Book of Leaves, old friend?” and the other man sighs, shakes his head.

“In the Bodleian,” he says, “I’ve heard tell of a book that isn’t on any register, never been taken out, hidden very well and written in a language well, not many English people can read.”

Leo sits up straight, intrigued, “No register,” he says, “means no number and no number makes it difficult to find even without being hidden.” He looks at Riario, says, “How are we supposed to find it?”

Riario smiles, stands up, shakes the hand of his professor and thanks him for his time, drags Leo through the door, says, “you’re the one with the ‘intellect’, _artista_ , you work it out. I’ll get us passes to the Bodleian.”

Leo catches his wrist and (deja vu) pulls him back, kisses him roughly, says, voice a threat again, “if you intend to abandon me and do this on your own-”

Riario kisses him back, smiles, says, “I assure you, Leonardo, were that my intention you would be unconscious in the boot of a car somewhere.”

Leo takes it as it’s meant, a compliment.

 

x.

 

“It’s in Hebrew,” Leo shouts and Riario clamps a hand over his mouth until he calms down because not only are they in a library they are in the Bodleian Library. “The book he talked about it’s in Hebrew, he looked embarrassed and angry when he spoke of the language that not many English people can read, and they can’t because it’s in a different alphabet and right to left as opposed to our way of writing.”

“How does that help us?” Riario says, shoving Leo away from people glaring still from the outburst, “The Brits are staring at us.”

“Oh hush,” says Leo, “for fucks sake it’s just a _library_.” And Riario slaps him upside the head, hisses, “it’s _the Bodleian_ and you will get us kicked out. We signed their declaration.”

Leo grins, calculating the average number of books per shelf and the average number of shelves per room and coming up with a number that makes his head hurt.

“Do you actually care what they think of you, Riario?” he whispers, tone light, “got some reputation to uphold.”

“Shut up, _artista_ ,” says Riario, nails digging into Leo’s arm, “the room on that sort of history is through here.”

And that’s when someone starts shooting at them.

Riario pulls him down behind one of the stacks and Leo’s breathing hard, manages to ask: “which room?” to which Riario squeezes hard, “you can’t be serious.”

“Can’t let a little gun fire ruin and expedition to a _library_ , Girolamo,” Leo grins and takes the knife from Riario’s pocket, runs in the vague direction he’d been pointed.

Alarms are blaring and there’s shouting and his head hurts but he sees a sign and he follows it, shuts the door and drags a bookcase to block it. He hopes Riario makes it out safe, or maybe a little beaten up but he hopes for a living enemy, not a dead one.

There’s dust everywhere (does no-one in the entirety of Oxford know Hebrew?) except for one shelf, a ladder thrown haphazardly away, he grabs it, climbs.

There’s a book in a plastic sleeve, the glamour of the scholar, and Leo pockets it without checking, throws a more modern looking dictionary through the tiny window and crawls out after it.

There’s a pounding at the door and his arms are cut to pieces, Leo smiles, though, he has the puzzle piece.

 

xi.

 

“The Bodleian went into lockdown after you left me,” Riario says, eyes darker than normal, chest heaving and a little blood on his nice suit coat, the tell tale tears of running in nicely tailored clothes, dust on his shiny black shoes and his hair falling left right and center as he glares.

Leo lights a cigarette and flicks ash onto the pavement, “you got out, I got out,” he says.

“You broke a window with a dictionary and tore you arms climbing out of it,” Riario says, anger fading as he rests his head on Leo’s shoulder.

“Seeing that much action in a library makes you wonder what we should be expecting when we get to some actual archaeology,” Leo laughs, takes a drag and puffs the smoke over Riario who scowls.

“We’re after a book, _artista_ , were you expecting a pyramid,” he says, and thumps Leo again on the arm, “and I’ve told you, it’s the Bodleian Library.”

Leo finds himself laughing, and then he can’t stop.

 

xii.

 

“God’s trousers, Leo,” Zo says, as Nico prepares some bandages from the first aid kid and Riario places the book onto the table. “What even the fuck is that book that people want to shoot up a university to get it?”

“Not this book,” Riario says, “the Book of Leaves.”

“The fuck is that?” Zo all but shouts at him and Riario stiffens, flicks the knife he retrieved from Leo open and cuts a line down the plastic, says, “The Book of Leaves is said to contain ‘progress’ made before the inception of Christianity and subsequently forgotten. It’s a book of knowledge, Zoroaster, and highly valuable either way you decide to go with it.”

Nico still won’t speak to Riario, addresses his questions to Leo, asks, “either way?” and Leo shrugs, flinches when the cuts pull, says, “sell it or read it.”

“Which will you do, _artista_?” says Riario.

“Read it and then put it back,” Leo says, and ignores the little voice that tells him that if people are shooting for it they probably want it for bad reasons, because that works on the assumption that he’s the good guy.

The assumption is flawed.

 

xiii.

 

“I,” Leo says, “can’t read Hebrew.”

Nico gives up with bandages and takes his place at Zo’s side, Zo shrugs, “neither can I,” he says.

“Nor I,” says Riario, flicking absentmindedly through the pages of this book, older than the Trevi fountain Leo had sat by only days ago, Nico scowls, clears his throat and looks at Leo, says, “Verrocchio can.”

“Your maestro,” Riario smiles, and pulls a laptop from his tiny suitcase, asks, “Does he have skype?”

 

xiv.

 

“Leo,” Verrocchio says over a strong connection, “give up on this fool’s errand - you’re an archaeologist not some myth hunter.”

Leo bites his lip, says, “Please, Verrocchio,” and he holds up the first page to the camera.

Verrocchio sighs, reads and then speaks, “It’s a treatise on the origin of the universe, there isn’t much here we don’t already know, no, wait a minute - look at the gold line down the side of the page, is there any more of it?”

Riario grabs the book and leafs through it, he looks up, “on odd pages,” and leo grabs the book and starts tearing.

Verrocchio yelps and Zo shouts, “Bloody hell, Leo!”

Riario may not notice that he’s holding the knife tight, Leo does. “What,” he says, “if it’s a map?”

“Right to left,” Verrocchio says, “good luck,” and disconnects.

Riario drops the knife and says, voice hollow, “if you’re wrong, _artista_ ,” and he bites out that last word, “I will kill you.”

Leo gets to putting the pieces together, a code his brain barely registers as it solves, right to left, up and down, he laughs, “it’s just a book Riario - this is what it was meant for.”

Riario kneels next to him, leans close, “Still,” he says, “I might kill you anyway.”

Nico starts yelling threats of his own, “You will not,” and “like hell you will,” until Zo takes him by the hand and lead him to their double room, blessedly, on the opposite side of the hotel.

“This is madness, Leonardo,” Riario says, standing and taking a step back, Leo laughs, delighted.

“This is beauty,” Leonardo da Vinci says, eyes ablaze.

 

xv.

 

“Jesus,” says Leo, when all other words fail him and he only knows one other word.

Riario laughs, keeps smiling, dragging nails down Leonardo’s back and repeating his name.

_Leonardo, Leonardo, oh God, artista, Leonardo, please_

And Leo wants more than anything to obey that voice, shaking from his actions like the body beneath him, Riario thrashes, writhes and moans and Leo presses kisses to his hair, his eyelids, the small cut on his shoulder from a shard of Bodleian bookshelf. He’s happy, first time since the Medici’s and he’s happy, here, fucking a man who’s threatened to kill him three times in a week, watching that same fearless, terrifying intensity played out for him alone, harsh breathing over his skin and begging, pleading.

Leo arches his body and Riario sighs.

This is all he wants.

 

Naturally, he needs more.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so,
> 
> for Nurul and Ramona


	3. this isn't russian roulette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I bloody hate camping,” Zo tells him and Leo punches his arm, says, “you probably should have mentioned that earlier.”
> 
> “Me too,” says Nico, from just behind them, eyes on his phone, texting. “Vanessa says hi and good luck. Oh - and she tells you not to get yourself killed, so-”
> 
> “Tell her I won’t,” Leo says.

xx.

 

In the ending there’s a single gunshot and a single cry rings clear through evening air, sending birds scattering from their perches in the trees.

Blood begins to pool on grass and stone and someone gasps, a hand reaches out, light fades from someone’s eyes.

 

Let’s not start this at the end.

 

We start with Rome and these are Italians, no story should start away from home.

This is Rome and only one of them is Roman, the Florentines are always far from home.

This is Rome and there’s no blood on the floor.

 

Yet.

 

xix.

 

They book the next flight back to Rome and Leo paces back and forth, a line smouldering on the carpet arms bandaged, cuts healing fast.

He tries to remember the last time he was in South America, the land lined in gold and the map from a torn up book; he tries to remember ever reading that someone found the Inca’s before the conquistadors did, comes up empty.

Riario shrugs, “perhaps they did not want anyone to know of their new world,” he says, flicking the knife open and closed, back and forth, in time with Leo’s pacing.

“Surely no-one can hide a discovery that big,” says Nico, his ‘not talking to Riario’ rule ignored, “surely-”

“Surely what, Nico?” Leo snaps, “Surely there’s some rule that everyone has always known that everything ever found must always be written down! It’s the chronology of the human race, Nico, if everyone documented everything they found or hid when they did it we would all of us be out of jobs - there’d be no history, just continuous loops of knowledge.”

Nico flinches and fiddles with his sleeve.

“It’s frustrating, artista,” says Riario, “but you needn’t get angry. We’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t like not knowing,” says Leo, “never have.”

Riario nods and goes out onto the balcony, phone in hand, knife still in the other.

“No-one likes not knowing, Leo,” says Zo, “least of all you. Where abouts in South America is it, anyway?”

Leo sighs, drags up a smaller copy of the map he’d sketched during the night (Riario stealing all the covers in the cold of England) and points to the left side, says, “Incan Empire."

“What like Machu Picchu?” Zo asks, looking over his shoulder, Nico joins him.

“No,” Riario says from the doorway, sun lighting his hair with a sort of cruel halo, “the Sons of Mithras wouldn’t hide their treasure in the palace of a heathen ruler, the map looks to point to somewhere more isolated, harder to get to. My guess is Choquequirao, though most of the Incan great buildings date after the coin was made.”

Leo looks back at the map and superimposes the modern one he sees in his mind, Riario’s right, the proverbial x is near to Choquequirao and fuck it that means walking.

“Fuck you,” Leo thinks, “He’s right,” Leo says.

Zo and Nico are predictable in the next sentence they share: “What the fuck is Choquequirao?”

Leo sighs, Riario laughs.

 

xviii.

 

In Riario’s townhouse in Rome they each have a separate room, touching anything feels like blasphemy and Leo walks on eggshells; they aren’t supposed to see inside each other's homes, he thinks, this is wrong.

Riario remains a shadow in this palace of light, the open windows and the whiteness, the huge doorless entrances and white glass sculptures, tiny replicas of the classics shine in white marble in the halls and the alcoves of the walls. The owner of this house is the canyon that tells him to step closer when he asks for guidance; Riario’s home, Riario’s rules.

They do not share a bed here; this is not equal ground.

 

xvii.

 

He sits back while Riario tells Nico and Zo all he knows about the Inca’s, explains Choquequirao (when he gets to the four day trek part Leo swear he hears Nico whimper) and the reasons why this trip will be dangerous, why this trip is dangerous. He mentions nothing about the men with guns in Oxford; Leo doesn’t either.

The book, or what’s left of it, key, coin and full map are in a locked compartment of Leo’s suitcase.

Nothing much matters but that.

 

xvi.

 

It’s Saturday when the body drops, a fresh corpse on the bench across from Riario’s door and Leo musters up the courage to go and see, Riario hangs back, looks closer, stumbles.

It’s the Oxford scholar, the Jew, shot through the leg and the lung, a slow, cruel way to die - drowning on dry land.

There’s Hebrew across his hands and a fingernail torn from his index finger.

“It must mean something,” he says, looking hard and Riario has a hand on his arm, “It’s one a.m, call the police.”

“This is a message,” Leo says, shaking his head, “not just the body, the gunshot wounds - obviously someone’s following us and wants what we know - wants the book of leaves but the fingernail. Why do that? Why tear out the fingernail? Unless he did it himself, more likely, which makes this a double message.”

“Leonardo, please,” says Riario, grip tightening and Leo shakes him off, reaches into a pocket and pulls out latex gloves. Riario inhales sharply, disgustedly, “Ready for everything,” he says in a tone that might once have been dry and mocking but it comes out scared, Leo nods and starts examining the corpse.

The fingernail rests underneath the Jew’s tongue, on it etched tiny words, ‘front door’ and Leo turns, tells Riario to check around, under flower pots anything for the second key.

“It’s here, artista,” says Riario, holding the key aloft, eyes tired and mouth set into a frown, “now please either call the police or come back inside.”

Leo chooses the latter, and Leo sleeps.

 

xv.

 

His hand is heavy, scraping, cutting through rock - he can’t breathe, he’s suffocating here in the dark and no one else is here and he thinks they must be dead and why did he have to find the first key anyway why did he. why-

\- Leo wakes to the sound of Nico’s quiet mumbling, he catches words like ‘manic’ and hears the phrase ‘too much’, he sits up, coughs, says, “what time is it?”

And Nico says “Noon, maestro.”

Leo hadn’t realised how tired he’d been, lies back down and looks at Nico, and Zo just past him in the door (why is Zo always at the door?).

“I’m still tired,” says Leo, “why am I still tired?”

“Riario,” Zo says, biting out the name like it personally offends him, “you started mumbling when you came back in from the - uh - the body and you were thrashing and fighting so he gave you something, knocked you out. I’m sorry, Leo, we didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s fine,” says Leo, because they’re alive and he’s not suffocating and he’s safe as far as he can be in the vipers nest, he says it like he means it, almost manages a smile, says, “can I talk to him, please?”

“Maestro,” says Nico, from his side, “Hasn’t he done all we needed of him now, can’t we get rid of him and go alone, just us three? - like normal.”

“I think this time we need him,” Leo says.

 

(“I still feel like I’m trapped,” he doesn’t.)

 

xiv.

 

“How do you feel?” says Riario, standing carefully away like Leo’s some frightened animal.

“Fucking fantastic,” says Leo, “and yourself? I hear I owe this headache to you.”

 

(“My head is trying to climb out of my skull and I can barely breathe,” Leo doesn’t say.

“I feel the same,” Riario doesn’t say either.)

 

Riario moves away and opens the curtains, as if to prove that hey, the headaches can get worse, and it’s a fucking glorious day in Rome and Leo wants to yank the curtain shut again and do something other than ache and lie in a bed that isn’t even his with a man who’s shot him, and threatened to knife him, giving him sleeping pills for his nightmares.

“Better,” says Riario, opening the window, “a headache than nightmares, I always find.”

Leo almost smiles, “what would you, the golden boy of Universita di Roma, know of nightmares?”

“Hmm,” says Riario, eyes back on Leo, “I’ve been trapped in dark places too, you know, artista, you do not have the monopoly on fear.” He shifts his weight and looks back out over Rome, murmurs, “they took the body away while you were sleeping, asked some questions, I told them the truth, none of us heard anything.”

“Did you tell them that you knew the man?” Leo asks, gulping down the coffee Zo or Nico had brought him, calculating what Riario must be thinking through the smooth movements and fluid grace to get back to Leo’s side.

Riario shakes his head, says, “No, let them think it a sad coincidence and find the people who did this. Saying anything would lend their suspicions credence and the last thing I need is to be bound in Rome during their investigations.”

Riario gives him a little smile, none of the usual edge or feeling, it’s absent minded, he leaves the room.

 

xiii.

 

His mind still thinks he’s trapped, he can’t go back to sleep, frightened he’ll forget to breathe. He doesn’t believe that Riario, so poised and proper, has ever experience the mind numbing terror of doors closing behind him and the thought that he might never get out, that he’ll die amongst the skeletons of the past and that history books will forget him because he never found Tutankhamun's Tomb, he never found the sunken library in Russia. He is not the great explorer, people remember his name for an affair not his brilliance (Oh, he’s not being conceited or arrogant, he really is that good but autodidact-ing can only get you so far.) nor his genius, his paintings aren’t accepted by the galleries of Modern Art, even the museums take his findings with caution now.

This Book of Leaves is his chance to make a difference, to find something that will change the world for the better, see his name in lights, lauded not disgraced. This Book feels like it could be everything he could be, everything he needs to be.

He thinks of the future, of mind over matter, and he takes a deep, steadying breath.

 

xii.

 

Riario tells him that the plane is booked for the next morning, tells him that they fly to Lima and then to Cusco. Tells him to pack for a trek and Leo rolls his eyes, makes a phonecall and has two backpacks made up with all they’ll need.

Nico’s never been to South America, never been across the Atlantic, he’s never hiked either; Leo tells him that it’ll be fine and Riario smiles, says, “Yes, provided you can walk for days at high altitudes,” and Nico whimpers.

 

xi.

 

“I bloody hate camping,” Zo tells him and Leo punches his arm, says, “you probably should have mentioned that earlier.”

“Me too,” says Nico, from just behind them, eyes on his phone, texting. “Vanessa says hi and good luck. Oh - and she tells you not to get yourself killed, so-”

“Tell her I won’t,” Leo says, “it should be simple, we should just get to Choquequirao, and the book, which I have studied half to death-”

“Which explains,” says Riario, sliding his phone back into the pocket of an outfit that certainly was never a suit, a hiking combination with added skinnyness to what look like jeans with extra pockets “why you have been looking like death.”

Leo ignores him, continues, “contains hints that we should, in theory, find more clues to the book’s location hidden in the hills around said Cradle of the Gods, probably in Hebrew, for which reason I have bought a handy dictionary, and from those clues we get the Book and fly home.”

“There’s a lot of hope there,” Nico says and Zo nods, says, “A lot of ‘in theories’ and ‘shoulds’.”

Leo smiles at them, says, “have a little faith.”

 

x.

  
  


“You sound more like yourself,” says Riario, as the plane takes off, his eyes are closed but Leo sees the smile twitch at the corner of his mouth and knows they’re laughing at him too. “I’m glad, a depressed Leonardo da Vinci does not bode well for the rest of us.”

“Existential crisis,” says Leo, and he places a pack of cards onto the crappy little table, “Nico and I made up a card game at one point, you’d like it, there’s ample possibility to be cruel but in the end it’s just luck.”

Riario opens his eyes, and eyes the battered cards Leo deals without waiting for an answer, “I suppose,” he says, “it’ll be something to pass the time.” He orders a whisky and listens to the rules.

“Okay,” Leo starts, “I deal out four cards face down for each of us and then another card face up on top of the four below, then four more are your actual hand, following?”

“I have eyes,” says Riario, “I can see what you’re doing.”

Leo ignores him again and continues: “Now, the rest of the cards form the deck, you always have to have four cards in your hand until you reach the laid down ones. So as I’m starting and putting a card from hand down I pick up as well.”

“And the actual game, artista?” Riario aks, tone mocking and bored, but he’s watching everything Leo does.

Leo grins, tells him, “each card has to be higher than the one below it and if you can’t do that there are magic cards that you can play if you have them. A ten burns the pile and the person who played the ten starts a new pile, a two resets the pile and the next person starts from the two, a five is invisible and the next person has to play higher than the card underneath the five and a nine makes the next person play a card lower than a nine.”

“The nine sounds unnecessary, how can you be cruel in such a game?”

“The aces,” Leo says, “they’re high in this game so if you play an ace and your opponent has no magics they have to pick up the entire pile.”

“Hmm,” says Riario, “I think I understand. Let’s play.”

“Lets,” Leo grins, and places the first card down, he starts it safe. He plays a three.

 

ix.

 

They play while Nico and Zo sleep, Riario wins more often than not.

“Beginners luck,” Leo says, downing more of his own whisky and settling further into his chair, and Riario smiles, says, “perhaps,” and places an ace on a four.

Leo scowls. “I shouldn’t have told you about this game,” he says, picking up.

“No,” says Riario, smirking around his glass “perhaps not, but I do like games.”

“And cruelty,” says Leo.

“You wound me, _artista_ ,” Riario plays a five on Leo’s nine, “I’m only ever cruel to you.”

“Hmm,” says Leo, and he pushes the cards away, closes his eyes. “How lucky I am.”

He hears Riario laugh, “how lucky indeed.”

 

viii.

 

Zo wakes him with a shove and Leo blinks, confused, “we can’t be there yet,” he says.

“Well we are so shut up and get up,” he snaps and Leo frowns until he realises why he feels so comfortable, Riario smiles down at him, whispers conspiratorially, “I don’t think your friend likes me.”

“None of my friends like you,” says Leo with a yawn, “and you don’t like them either so-” He stands, grabs his hand luggage and almost falls on unsteady legs, Riario catches him and of course he does, solid Riario, he’s only ever seen him fall once.

“Perhaps no alcohol on the transfer to Cusco, _artista_ ,” says Riario once he lets go and stands himself, tickets in his now free hand and the cards held loosely in the other. “Or we’ll never make it to the start of the climb in one piece.”

“Fuck you,” Leo says, voice light and cheerful, he almost begins to abandon the wariness.

 

(He doesn’t and thinks it wise.

“What have you got planned for us, Girolamo?” he doesn’t ask.)

 

vii.

 

“Are you insane?” says Zo, disembarking from the tiny transfer plane with clouds in his eyes, “we’re just going to start walking now?”

“With the men with guns following us to my home,” Riario hisses, “we don’t have the luxury of time to spare.”

Zo frowns and Nico opens his mouth to yell something at Riario but Leo stops them, eyes on the streets outside the tiny airport says, “It’s best, Zo, particularly with those people staring at us.”

“How the fuck did they know when we’d get here?” Nico’s laugh is just this side of hysterical and Leo shrugs, fluid, answers, “the fuck if I know, but we won’t be walking much yet - we need a bus to Abancay.”

“I’ll just pretend to know where that is,” Zo says, hands thrown up and voice pitched higher than normal. “Then what?”

“We walk from Abancay to Cachora and then it’s five days to Choquequirao.”

Zo groans and Nico makes a noise not unlike a small cry.

Riario takes out his phone, checks for signal and puts it back - Leo says nothing.

There’s a shiver of something up his spine, but, well, there’s nothing much he can do now.

 

vi.

 

They find the bus and the walk from Abancay to Cachora doesn’t take too long, they are out of the tourist season, the routes are void of many people. The trail, though, is clearly marked; they sit and catch their breath.

“If you don’t want to go any further,” says Leo, the general addressing his army, “I won’t hold it against you-”

Zo and Nico swear at him and tell him to shut up, Riario smiles and shakes his head.

“Well then,” he continues, “onwards and, quite literally, upwards.”

“Keep an eye on the rocks, da Vinci,” says Riario, “you don’t know where the Mithraic Sons left their marks.”

“I have done this before,” says Leo.

 

v.

 

“Maestro,” Nico shouts, “isn’t this the monster on the coin?”

Riario nods, “It’s definitely leontocephaline,” he looks at Leo, says, “he has the keys.”

“The fuck is leontocephaline,” Zo grumbles.

It’s been three days of their five.

“Leonardo,” Riario says, “there’s Hebrew script here אני צמא, ‘I am thirsty.’”

“You,” Leo says, “can read Hebrew?”

Riario snarls, “Of course I can.”

“Why did you-” Nico breathes.

“Lie?” Riario laughs, “it’s easier to trust a man who knows only a little more than yourself,” he turns to Leo, says, “did you even attempt to research the Sons of Mithras, _artista_?”

“Stop calling me that!” He won’t call it a scream. (Even if it was.)

“I am a son of Earth and starry sky,” Riario bites out, knife in hand and standing higher than the rest of them, carefully, now, out of reach. “I am thirsty, give me something to drink from the Lake of Memory!” He laughs again, and Leo hears the cruelty, sees the mask of any trustworthiness break and shatter at his feet as Riario continues, “after all you’ve come to know of me, Leonardo, did you honestly think I’d let you take the Book of Leaves when I could get it myself?”

“What would you do with it?” Leo asks, as Zo and Nico pull weapons from holsters and pockets, “why would you do this? What could possibly be in it for you?”

“The book is heathen knowledge, I can’t see it read by those who do not understand. It should be read by-”

“Who,” Leo shouts, “you? Your precious Catholic leaders? What will they do; keep it locked up in their archives?” He pulls a gun from his pocket and aims for Riario’s heart (not sure even if he has one).

Riario frowns, throws the knife.

Nico screams.

 

iv.

 

“I’ll kill him myself,” Zo swears, binding all the fabric they have around Nico’s waist by light from the setting sun, the knife didn’t land itself in Nico’s stomach, rather sliced through his side and they lost Riario to trees and rocks and a sharp turn after the fucking statuette.

“You’ll have to fight me for the pleasure,” says Leo, hand on Nico’s shoulder, he ignores the blood.

Nico winces, shifts, says, “I think I have the right, don’t you?” and Leo laughs.

“You didn’t tell us about him, maestro,” Nico says, voice a quiet accusation.

It’s Leo’s turn to wince, “I thought I could trust him,” and Zo shakes his head sharply, viciously, hisses, “You thought that because you were fucking him he wouldn’t fuck you over! Well he did and here we are again only this time it isn’t you bleeding!”

“He’ll be okay, Zo,” Leo says and watches as Zo’s eyes grow hard as steel and he yells “He shouldn’t be hurt! This was stupid, Verrocchio told you so, we both told you but you trust that fucking killer over anyone who never hurt you! You’re insane!”

“I’m,” says Leo, tears biting at his eyes, head spinning, “I’m not - I didn’t-”

Nico coughs, “It’s okay, maestro, it’s not your fault,” Leo spins away from the small hand that reaches for him.

“No,” he says, “Zo’s right I should never have brought you here I’m sorry. Take the phone and get yourself help, I’m going after Riario. We have unfinished business.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I won’t see,” says Leo, pulling guns out of pockets and loading them, “the Book of Leaves in the hands of a corrupt Catholic church, Zo.”

Nico smiles, face white from bloodloss, “go get them, Leo,” he says and Zo nods, “kill the bastard.”

“Oh,” says Leo, “don’t worry - I intend to.”

 

iii.

 

He follows the trail cut into the trees and doesn’t even care that there’s no effort to cover it up, Mithraic statues line this place and no one’s fucking been here for centuries before Riario, and now, he supposes, him too.

As the statues get closer together he begins to hear it, talking, a quiet murmur at first but then the snippets of conversation float to him - he hears two different voices, one he knows and one he doesn’t, Riario’s voice clear and sharp, the other’s gruff and dull.

“Da Vinci is dead, then.” The other man asks without asking, a gruff statement with little room for alternative, he hears Riario say: “Yes, wonders of high altitudes, you know, always somewhere to stage an ambush.”

“There were three of them and one of you,” the gruff voice says and Leo hears Riario laugh, and say: “and yet here I am and here they are not, trust me, I owed Da Vinci that.”

Leo moves slowly, his heart stops with every twig that snaps, each blade of grass that rustles under his boot, he takes them off, sheds all excess weight and leaves himself with his clothes and two loaded guns, a knife at his thigh.

“Well then, where is this Vault of Heaven?” the gruff voice moves away from him and Leo can see the man whose voice it is stride over to some markings in a rock.

Riario stands, two other men at either arm, in a clearing surrounded by high rocks, a Lion statue carved out of one of them, the cardinal point, he thinks for East - the writing is no longer Hebrew alone, it runs in Greek, Egyptian, Persian, Arabic down the stones, “I am a son of earth,” it repeats, “I am a son of earth and starry sky.”

“You’re looking for a door,” Riario says, “or at least somewhere a key would fit,” and Leo checks the chain around his neck - he’d assumed but - the keys are both still there.

Leo frowns, and looks at the scene again.

The two men at Riario’s sides are holding him, Leo moves forward into the dying light, says:

“This isn’t it.”

 

ii.

 

He has the guns trained on Riario and the gruff speaker, a large man, who trains his own rifle on Leo.

“This isn’t it,” he says again and the man’s eyes flick to Riario, he growls: “I thought you’d killed him.”

Riario moves his hand (the knife, Leo thinks, the knife) but his guards grab his wrists, “Well,” he says, “maybe I spoke too soon,” and his eyes are on Leo alone - they dare him, those dark eyes tell him: do it now, artista, don’t pretend you don’t know what’s happening.

Leo winces as pain laces up his limbs from standing still, it’s lactic acid and he inhales sharply, says, “You won’t find it, whoever you are and regardless of who you work for, just leave, give up.”

“We want the book,” the gruff man says.

Leo shoots.

 

i.

 

(In the ending there’s a single gunshot and a single cry rings clear through evening air, sending birds scattering from their perches in the trees.)

“I have more bullets,” Leo says, “this isn’t Russian Roulette.”

(Blood begins to pool on grass and stone and someone gasps, a hand reaches out, light fades from someone’s eyes.)

Riario whimpers from the ground as the men surrounding him stand and watch the madman with two guns, the two guards aim and Leo shoots, the third raises his hands.

Leo shoots again, anyway.

(Let’s not start this at the end.)

  
  


לאחר סיומו.

 

After the end there’s a hand at his shoulder and an arm around his waist.

“I had to do it,” the voice says and Leo nods.

“I fucking hate you,” Leo says, water in his eyes from pain or sunlight or something else, it’s midday and he has knife wounds where his common sense should be.

“I love you too,” the voice replies, “ _artista_.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Ramona who told me to say this: "for Ramona, a friend who gladly died from one heart attack to the other when hearing my spoilers."
> 
> and for Nurul, who probably wants me dead
> 
> there will be some sort of epilogue, 
> 
> until then

**Author's Note:**

> what even?


End file.
